


and the night owes us nothing at all

by withoutmaps



Category: Bandom, The Cab
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-06
Updated: 2008-05-06
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:37:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withoutmaps/pseuds/withoutmaps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>For <a href="http://alwayseven.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://alwayseven.livejournal.com/"><b>alwayseven</b></a> in the <a href="http://cabfic.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://cabfic.livejournal.com/"><b>cabfic</b></a> fic exchange. Thanks to <a href="http://keeplistening.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://keeplistening.livejournal.com/"><b>keeplistening</b></a>, <a href="http://warmingweather.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://warmingweather.livejournal.com/"><b>warmingweather</b></a>, and <a href="http://pau494.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://pau494.livejournal.com/"><b>pau494</b></a> for all the amazing help. ♥!</p>
    </blockquote>





	and the night owes us nothing at all

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://alwayseven.livejournal.com/profile)[**alwayseven**](http://alwayseven.livejournal.com/) in the [](http://cabfic.livejournal.com/profile)[**cabfic**](http://cabfic.livejournal.com/) fic exchange. Thanks to [](http://keeplistening.livejournal.com/profile)[**keeplistening**](http://keeplistening.livejournal.com/), [](http://warmingweather.livejournal.com/profile)[**warmingweather**](http://warmingweather.livejournal.com/), and [](http://pau494.livejournal.com/profile)[**pau494**](http://pau494.livejournal.com/) for all the amazing help. ♥!

Things get sort of fuzzy on tour; the rules Cash thought were firmly ingrained in him start to bend and break.

This, for example, isn't something he'd normally do, push some girl, hands maybe a little rough, into a bathroom and lock the door behind them. Cash isn't a total jerk; he knows how you're supposed to treat girls. He might not always do it right, but he certainly knows. Not like this, that's for sure, but it doesn't seem to stop him from grinding up against her, mouthing wet and hot down her neck. It doesn't stop him from hitching one of her legs up around his waist, unbuckling his belt and undoing his jeans.

She told him her name -- Amy or Amanda, Anne maybe -- but he can't remember and it 's not like it matters. Not with her fingernails sharp against his skin and her mouth opening around his name, over and over.

Her head is tilted back against the tile, her breathing a little ragged already. Cash thinks he could come without actually getting inside of her.

He's feeling slightly desperate, the need to get off burning through him. He kisses her hard, licks into her mouth, and she doesn't put up any fight at all, kisses him right back. Her fingers let up for a second, thread through his hair, and Cash wants the pull of her fingers in his hair, the sting of her teeth on his skin. He doesn't ask, though, only pulls away from her long enough to rip open a condom.

  
\--

  
"Suck it," Cash says and there's a tone. He knows Marshall hears it when he rolls his eyes, says, "Whatever, dickface. We're leaving in twenty minutes, with or without you."

Cash knows they wouldn't actually leave without him. Sure, they could always find another bassist, but then they'd have to teach him the old songs _and_ the new songs. That would be more of a hassle than it's worth.

Plus, Cash is pretty sure at least Singer would fight for him. Johnson, too.

"Yeah, yeah," Cash replies and Marshall shakes his head, rolls his eyes again. Once Marshall is turned away and talking to Singer, Cash flips him off. He's having trouble shrugging off his dissatisfaction, the same feeling he's had since long before escaping to the bathroom. It's almost like there's an itch buried deep beneath his skin and there's no way for him to get at it. He thought she would have done it, thought the exertion, the release, would clean him out.

Instead. He still wants to hit someone, wants to feel his knuckles brushing hard against skin. Cash wants _that_ kind of exertion, throwing his body against someone who will push back.

He smiles and takes pictures, signs _Cash $_ , for the next ten minutes, and then when it's time, Cash follows Johnson out to the van.

"Oh. You made it." Marshall's tone is sort of dry and Cash grits his teeth, his smile closer to a snarl. Marshall's smile is sugary sweet in return and all of Cash's frustration hits him like a freight train.

"Whatever, dude," Cash says, climbs over Marshall and doesn't feel bad when he accidentally catches him in the ribs. He doesn't even feel bad when Marshall says, "Oomph. Fuck, Cash." Cash just shrugs and curls himself into the back corner, digs out his iPod. If he doesn't have to drive he's certainly going to get a few hours of sleep.

  
\--

  
Cash wakes up to Marshall's elbow in his side, Marshall's mouth open against his shoulder. Ian and Singer are talking in front of them, their heads close together as Singer points out the advantages of something or other. Cash is pretty sure he doesn't actually want to know.

Marshall makes a soft snuffling noise and noses in closer to Cash. Still barely awake, Cash enjoys the warmth, shifts only so that Marshall's pointy elbow is no longer stabbing into his ribs.

"Denny's!" Johnson shouts from the front, his voice cutting through both the music and Singer's bullshit.

Cash feels Marshall start to move, hears him yawn.

"What time 'sit?" he asks, words slurred slightly from sleep. Marshall opens his eyes slowly and for the first time in about a week Cash doesn't feel an overwhelming need to lash out, to hit something.

"Still early," Cash says and it is. Just after nine and they've got a few more hours before they reach the next city, boring landscape spread out in front of them for miles. Marshall yawns again and slowly pushes himself away from Cash, one hand on Cash's thigh for support. He stretches and Cash doesn't watch, focuses on picking a new song to listen to, scrolls through song after song until Marshall's heat is mostly gone from his side. It takes a while.

  
\--

  
Of course. Of course Cash ends up sandwiched between Ian and Marshall once they get inside. A little more awake now and Cash is feeling that old frustration start to creep in. He follows Ian into the booth and Johnson slides in next to Singer, the look he gives Marshall anything but sympathetic. Even in the face of Marshall's most pathetic look, Johnson just spreads his legs a little and doesn't move an inch.

Marshall sighs and slips into the booth next to Cash.

He's still got crease lines on his face, his arms crisscrossed with tiny red indents that Cash looks at for a second too long. He doesn't watch as Marshall rubs at them, though; he's trying to decide whether he wants bacon or sausage and Cash thinks maybe he'll just get a plate of bacon, Marshall's fingers brushing against his arm and then moving away.

  
\--

  
Cash hears, "Hey, fucker. That doesn't go there," and then Marshall's hands are pushing him out of the way, tugging the amp away from him. Cash gets this surge of anger, this flash of _fuck you, I know what I'm doing_ that he only barely manages to tamp down on before it actually comes out of his mouth.

He relinquishes the amp and steps back, crosses his arms over his chest.

"I think I got this," Marshall says after a moment and Cash clenches his hands into fists, watches Marshall put the amp in the exact same place he was headed for.

"Cash, hey. Give me a hand with this, would you?" Johnson calls and Cash takes a second to think about how Marshall is really, really lucky before crossing the stage to help him. Really lucky.

Later, after they've loaded all their shit in the van and he just wants to find some food, Cash nearly walks right into Marshall. His back is turned, he’s talking to some girl and Cash knows he shouldn't, but he just can't resist. He puts a hand on Marshall's lower back and pushes up onto his tiptoes, hooks his chin over Marshall's shoulder and says, "She sucked my dick an hour ago." Cash escapes before Marshall can retaliate.

Cash waits and waits, keeps an eye on Marshall through both of the sets after theirs and still.

Nothing. Marshall watches him warily, keeps an eye on Cash whenever he's near, but he never says, does, anything. It takes him a while, too long probably, for Cash to realize that he's seen that look a lot lately, seen Marshall's mouth tightened into a thin line, his body language completely closed off.

Marshall's been giving him that look for about a week, stiffening up any time Cash gets too close, and Cash can't even remember what he did.

Cash remembers the way Marshall felt against him this morning, sleep warm and soft, his elbow pressed into the sensitive spot under Cash's ribs. He remembers the warmth and simplicity, the way Marshall hadn't tensed when he woke up, not even when he realized it was Cash he was leaning on.

"You guys were great." Cash smiles automatically and it takes him another second to fully register the body attached to the voice. Eyes dark-rimmed, tight shirt and jeans, Cash blinks and thinks for a second about what it would be like to see her on her knees in front of him. He blinks again and she's talking, saying something about their set and how she saw them a couple months ago, loved their show.

He usually doesn't think of it as pretending, talking to the fans. Usually Cash loves talking to them, he really does. He loves finding out about their cities and the other shows they go to. Cash loves the way they smile, look slightly enchanted to see him.

He's having trouble following this one, though; the rise and fall of her voice is a jumble of words he doesn't understand.

She touches him on the arm, soft skin against his, and Cash startles, smiles to cover his surprise.

  
\--

  
What Cash really wants right now is to go to sleep; it's a hotel night and he can't wait for a real bed, a hot shower. Instead, Travis ropes him into going out with them, says, "Come on, loser. They don't even card at that place down the street."

Cash can't say no to that and he ends up stuck in the seat next to the wall with no way out. It takes him a while to get through one beer, two, and mostly Cash ends up spending almost two hours watching Marshall drink, the line of his neck and his fingers picking at the label of his drink.

He watches Marshall smile, quick and easy, and Cash's throat goes dry when Marshall looks over at him, still smiling. But then it slides off his face and he rolls his eyes, says, "How was she?"

His tone is a little hard and Cash thinks he's the only one sober enough to hear it.

  
\--

  
Marshall trips, probably over his own feet, and he only barely manages to catch himself on the wall. He laughs and blinks, slow, at Cash.

"Cash," he says, almost like he's trying the word out, seeing how it tastes. He says it again and then, "Sometimes I hate you, Cash. Like. A lot. The way you-"

Cash thinks Marshall might throw up for a second, but he just makes some vague gestures with his hands and scoffs when Cash raises an eyebrow at him. They're not far apart, close enough that Marshall actually hits him midway through one of his gestures, and it's not much of a stretch for his fingers to close around Cash's forearm. When he says it again, voice soft like he might be trying to whisper, "Hate you," Cash swallows.

"Yeah, well," Cash says and he should be moving away, taking a step back. He should be herding Marshall down the hall and toward their room.

Instead, he's stepping closer, right up into Marshall's space.

"Hey. Marsh- Alex." Marshall looks up at him and he looks a lot less drunk for a second, eyes almost clear as he meets Cash's gaze. Cash isn't sure what he was going to say and he doesn't say anything at all.

"Such a fucking douchebag," Marshall says and Cash laughs, is still laughing when Marshall leans forward and kisses him.

It's not like Cash has thought about this before, what it would be like to kiss Marshall. He hasn't.

Except, if he's being honest with himself, he has.

And if he's still being honest with himself, he always thought Marshall would kiss soft and slow, sweet. Cash never thought that kissing Marshall would be all teeth, tongues sliding together, and Cash could get used to this. He could get used to the way Marshall bites, the noises he makes.

Cash thinks he could get used to this just as Marshall pulls aways.

"I thought," Marshall says, voice sort of low and strange. He sounds almost as frustrated as Cash has felt the last few days. "I thought you were mad, that you. I don't know."

Cash kisses him again and Marshall's hands fist in his shirt, pull him closer as their mouths move together, messy and just this side of painful. Marshall's teeth scrape across his lips and Cash groans, presses a thigh between Marshall's, presses close.

"We should-" Marshall's voice is rough, his head tilted back as Cash bites softly at the skin under his jaw, lower. Marshall's hands push at Cash and Cash doesn't want to go, but then Marshall grits out, "Room, fuck," and Cash thinks that's a good idea. A really good idea.

  
\--

  
Cash wakes up and it's. It's a little surreal. Not just that he's waking up in a fucking bed, but that Marshall is still asleep behind him, his breathing slow and rhythmic. Cash can feel him pressed up close, Marshall's knees bent right up behind his and his breath warm on Cash's neck. He's got one hand on Cash's hip, his fingers fitted over the line of bone. He doesn't move when Cash shifts away, when he gains an extra inch or two of space.

Marshall sighs a little, but he doesn't move.

The other bed is empty, the comforter pulled very slightly out of place, and Cash thinks he should probably mess it up a little, make it look like someone slept there. He groans, rubs at his eyes.

There's the rustle of sheets behind him, Marshall shifting in his sleep, and Cash goes still. He stares out at the bed, the window, the tiny table in the corner, and tries really hard not to think of all that skin, all that warmth so fucking close and. It's a nice hotel room and Cash isn't sure how they managed to get this one. Just that he knows by now not to ask questions, to take whatever they're handed and roll with it.

He breathes in, out, and then moves again. This time a little further away and Marshall's fingers tighten minutely on Cash's skin. He makes a tiny noise, one that sounds like protest.

Cash waits another few seconds, what feels like it could be forever but most likely isn't, before he moves again. And he finally slides all the way out from under Marshall, completely off the bed. He stays there, hunched up awkwardly and almost painfully next to the bed, long enough to make sure Marshall doesn't wake up before he's off to the shower.

He smells like beer and smoke and Cash is going to take full advantage of this opportunity for hot water and soap.

  
\--

  
They're lucky enough to find an IHOP on the way to the next city, too many days of Taco Bell and Denny's and Cash just wants some fucking pancakes. The kind with the fruit and as much syrup as he wants.

They see the sign, _FOOD 2 MILES_ , and Cash spots the blue and red sign on the list of restaurants. Ian says, "IHOP, fuck yeah," and Cash already knows exactly what he's getting.

The next two miles, though, are ten minutes of pure torture: Singer singing along to Michael Buble and Johnson yelling over him to be heard. Marshall ignoring him.

Marshall hasn't looked at him since they got in the van, since he stalled long enough for Singer to crawl into the back with Cash and then crawled into the middle seat before Cash could say, or do, anything. Marshall hasn't looked at him once, not even when Cash kicked lightly at the back of his seat, once and then again when Marshall still didn't turn. Before he could do it again Ian had said, a warning in his tone, "Knock it off, Cash," and Cash stopped.

Now he watches as Marshall slides into the opposite booth, just slides past Johnson and Singer, and claims the seat next to the window, the one furthest from Cash. He watches silently as Johnson's eyes narrow, as Marshall just smiles at him, all innocence.

Cash catches his eyes for just a second before Marshall looks away, grabs at Ian's menu and fakes a pout when he's denied.

  
\--

  
Two songs into their set and Cash isn't even sure what the hell he's doing, what the hell he's done.

They've been in this stupid sort of standoff all day, dancing around each other with blank looks and one word answers.

Singer says they're going to be playing a song off the album tonight and that brings Cash back, makes him think _ohshitforgotthefirstchord_ before Johnson is counting them off. Somehow his fingers manage to remember what his brain can't, but Cash still feels a step behind.

He stays as far away from Marshall as possible, stays to his own little corner of the stage for the whole show, and it's a lot harder than Cash would have ever thought. The stage is so tiny that Marshall isn't even a foot away and Cash has to actually force himself not to reach out and touch, not to bump his shoulder against Marshall's during the second verse of Take My Hand.

Even without touching, without getting too close, Cash can tell he's uncomfortable, the line of his shoulders tense, and he's just. He can't figure out how to deal with this version of Marshall. All that silence and he knows Marshall, he knows that Marshall's not fragile, won't break if Cash isn't gentle enough.

Cash knows that Marshall has no problem pushing him back, shoving his full weight into Cash and maybe making him hurt a little. Little scrapes and tiny bruises, nothing too bad.

That old dissatisfaction is starting to creep up on him again as they finish the set, climbing up his spine and settling into his shoulders. It's been building all day, since breakfast, and Cash just can't shake it off. He's ready for messy and loud. Cash is ready for anger and nasty names.

  
\--

  
"I am getting fucking wasted," Cash says, pulling his bass over his head. Marshall shoves past him and Cash knows Travis gets it when he sees the look on Marshall's face, his eyes narrowed and his lips a straight line.

"Yes. For sure, yeah," Travis says with a little bit of understanding and by the time We the Kings goes on Cash is three beers in and there's a girl at the bar buying him a shot.

The set goes by in a blur of drinks and smiles. Cash thinks he notices Marshall watching him at one point, but he just lifts his chin, the gesture halfway between hostility and greeting.

  
\--

  
"So," Travis starts, his hair hanging sweaty and sort of gross in face. He pushes at it and Cash can barely hear him over all the fucking people surrounding them. So much noise and Cash has lost how many drinks he's had. Not too many, just. He wasn't really counting.

Cash wasn't really focusing on whether that last one was six or seven.

"Who you running from?"

"I am not running from anyone," Cash declares grandly, a large sweep of his hand. And okay, seriously. Cash is like the best liar ever, really, but he doesn't have to lie this time because hey, he's not running from anyone. Who would he run from? Marshall? There's no way Cash would run from Alex fucking Marshall, of all people. Cash can totally take him, whatever.

"Um. Wow." The look on Travis face is sort of hilarious when he says, "That was way too much info, dude."

Cash thinks he should probably be embarrassed, especially because he didn't mean to say that _out loud_ , but he just shrugs and laughs. It's not like Travis is going to tell and even if he did, Cash doesn't really give a fuck right now.

It's not even like it matters because suddenly Marshall is there, his hands tugging at Cash.

Travis gives them both a look, a raised eyebrow that Cash thinks means _need any help?_ Cash doesn't even have a chance to reply before Marshall is pulling him away, back through the crowd and out into the night.

It's not cold but Cash wraps his arms around himself anyway, doesn't resist when Marshall guides him back toward the van.

Everyone's still inside and Cash can hear the low murmur of voices, Singer's stupid laugh.

"We have to-" Marshall starts, stops. "Ian said."

Cash leans back up against the van and waits, watches Marshall bite at one of his fingernails. He's not stalling, Cash knows, just. Thinking. He's trying to put his words together, put them together right.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Marshall says, rubs a hand over his face. Cash watches the movement of his hands, the familiar way Marshall pushes his hair back out of his face. He watches the lines of Marshall's arms and Cash can't seem to control the way his fingers are suddenly curled into Marshall's hoodie.

Cash pulls him closer and Marshall isn't moving, has gone still against him and he's barely breathing it seems.

Marshall lets Cash kiss him at first, doesn't resist when Cash just tugs him closer. The sound he makes when their hips meet makes Cash think. _This is okay, okay, okay._ He threads his fingers through Marshall's hair, kisses Marshall's mouth open, and Cash isn't expecting it when his head hits the van.

"Ow, fuck." Marshall is already two steps away and Cash rubs at the back of his head, doesn't think he'll have a bump. For a second, though, he regrets getting this drunk, drunk enough to pull Marshall closer and drunk enough to think that this was a good idea.

"You can't just." Marshall waves his hands around a little bit and Cash isn't sure what he's trying to get across.

"Jesus Christ," Cash says, his hand still pressing gently against his head. It's still tender to the touch and the soft pain feels weird, Cash's senses all fucked up from the alcohol. He presses lightly and winces. Marshall rolls his eyes and says, "You're fine, I didn't even push you that hard."

He sounds mad, annoyed. He sounds like he'd do it again.

"Well, it still fucking hurts," Cash says and he wishes Marshall wasn't standing so far away.

Marshall gives him a dirty look and Cash can feel his buzz starting to wear off. Fuck, he thinks and he just wants to stay drunk, wants this to stay funny.

Neither of them speak for a while, just a minute or so, and Cash thinks about the way Marshall felt pressed against him this morning, last night. Sweaty and a little disgusting, but also warm and right there. He thinks about Marshall's fingers and Marshall's mouth and Cash tries not to think about the way the room had been so quiet before they'd finally left.

He's trying not to think about the stilted silence and the way Marshall wouldn't actually look at him , but then this Marshall, the one standing right in front of him, steps a little closer.

"Marsh," Cash says and his voice is quiet, nothing more than a whisper.

Marshall looks up at him and he sounds sort of annoyed when he says, "You can't- _We_ can't do this."

He's close enough now that Cash can reach him, can close his fingers over Marshall's wrist and tug him closer. He's close enough that Cash can practically taste the small noise of protest Marshall makes, feel it pressed against his skin.

"We won't," is all Cash says before he kisses Marshall again. He's still drunk, yeah, can feel his lips tingling, his face hot. But Marshall's mouth is opening against his, his tongue licking into Cash's mouth as his hands find purchase on Cash's sides, his hips.

Marshall bites down on Cash's lip and Cash rocks his hips into Marshall's, the teeth on his lip disappearing as Marshall moans into his mouth.

Marshall says something, his mouth pressed up against Cash's and it sounds like _can'tshouldn't_ , but Cash just pulls him closer, lines them up so that their dicks are pressed together, Marshall's thigh between his own.

Cash almost can't believe he gets to do this again, feel Marshall all solid warmth against him, and he just sort of relaxes into him. He goes pliant under Marshall's touch and Marshall's still licking across his teeth, over his lower lip. He's pressed up close and Cash wishes he could do this forever.

The hands on his hips tighten and Cash hears it just after Marshall.

"Cash, what the fuck, dude?" It's Singer and he sounds sort of pissed off. Cash grunts and tries to hold Marshall close, tries to keep him from getting away.

"I do not even want to know," Singer says when he rounds the corner, when Cash can see him backlit by the venue lights. Singer's got his hands on his hips and he's all attitude when he says, "The kids are asking for you."

Cash nods, says, "I'll be there in a sec."

His voice is a little gravelly and Singer huffs before turning around and walking back.

Before Cash can get a good grip on him, Marshall says, "Hey, wait up," and just like that slides away from Cash and after Singer.

There are indents in his lower lip and Cash runs his tongue over them as he watches Marshall walk away.

  
\--

  
"Hey." Marshall's voice is low and his fingers jab into Cash's side a couple times. Cash grunts at him, smacks absently at the fingers still poking into his side. He's trying to sleep, catch an hour or two before they get to the next city, and seriously.

"Cash," Marshall says, says his name again until Cash finally just turns over.

"What, Marsh?" Cash asks, his voice rough with sleep. He doesn't rub at his eyes because he doesn't actually want to be awake. He's in that place, halfway between drunk and hungover, and he seriously just wants to fucking sleep. But then Marshall curls closer and Cash can't help the way his body just relaxes back into him.

"I can't-"

"If you tell me you woke me up to tell me we can't do something, this, whatever, I will punch you in the face," Cash interrupts.

Marshall chokes off a laugh and slides his fingers over Cash's bare skin.

"No, no. Just. I can't sleep." Cash sighs, lifts an arm and shifts a little, waits until Marshall's squirmed up next to him and lined himself up before relaxing.

"I'm going to kill you in the morning," Cash says and Marshall huffs a laugh, his breath fanning across Cash's neck.

  
\--

  
"Seriously," Cash says, shades his eyes against the sun. It's barely eleven and he woke up with Marshall pressed up against him less than an hour ago. He woke up with Marshall's dick pressed hard against his hip and Cash wants to go back to that moment.

"No," Ian says, brushes at a spot on his pants.

"No what?" Johnson yawns and grabs at the coffee in Cash's hand. Cash doesn't say anything, just makes a face and passes the coffee over.

"Nothing, Cash is being an idiot," Ian says and Cash kicks at him half-heartedly. Ian dodges him easily and Johnson smiles, passes the coffee back. It's almost empty and Cash scowls at him.

"Fucker," he says and Johnson smiles, tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. Hot as fuck outside already and Cash just wants to crawl back into the bus, wants to wrap himself up in Marshall and sleep for a while. He finishes up the last of his coffee and tosses it toward the trash, misses by a mile.

"Nice shot," Singer says, Marshall close on his heels. They've got a whole bunch of shit, bags of chips and popcorn and a few bottles of vitamin water.

"Ready?" Ian asks and they all nod, trudge back into the van. It's Marshall's turn to drive and Cash doesn't have to call shotgun, just pushes Ian until he's getting into the back with the rest of them. Marshall gives Cash a look as he's turning the van on, but he doesn't say anything.

  
\--

  
"I told you," Marshall says, voice patient but slightly strained.

"No, you didn't," Cash replies, follows Marshall until his back is against the wall. "You didn't. You just said that we shouldn't, that Ian said. You didn't tell me anything. Not really."

Cash steps closer and Marshall shifts, goes from stubborn, _not doing this, fuck you_ , to pulling Cash closer. He tugs at the hem of Cash's shirt, slips his fingers up underneath until he's touching bare skin. His fingers skim Cash's stomach and Cash can't help the shudder that goes through him. He can't help the way his eyes slip closed for a second.

"Fuck, please," Cash says and he was in control. Just for a second there he had Marshall backed up against the wall and he was in charge. But now.

Marshall leans forward, his breath ghosting over Cash's jaw, and just before his lips touch skin, he says, "Why?"

"I want," Cash mumbles, his head tipped back and his hands grasping tightly to Marshall's shoulders.

"Say it," Marshall says and Cash isn't imagining the edge, the way Marshall's fingers dig into his skin just enough to bruise. Marshall presses his mouth to Cash's neck, not even a kiss, just a breath, a graze of skin.

"Please, Marsh. Please."

"You have to say it, I don't." Marshall breathes in sharply. "I don't know what you want."

Cash takes a second to think, to think about all the things he wants and each of the words that goes with it. None of them seem like enough.

"Cash," Marshall says and there's that edge again. Desperation maybe.

"You, fuck. Come on, Marsh." Cash's fingers scrabble over Marshall's shoulders, search for some kind of purchase. He grunts and says, "I want you, okay. Not just like this."

Words, words, words, Cash can't find the right ones.

His voice is tight and it's all he can do to hold it steady when he grits out, "I want to touch you, want you to touch me. I want you, fuckface."

Marshall laughs and his thumb brushes over Cash's lower lip. He presses their lips together, almost a kiss.

"Yeah," Marshall says, lips moving against Cash's. "Yeah, okay."


End file.
